


Interpreting You

by Tea221b



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Asexual Character, Character Study, Drama, Friendship, Gen, Humor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-17
Updated: 2013-06-17
Packaged: 2017-12-15 07:00:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 8,903
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/846674
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tea221b/pseuds/Tea221b
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A few short one-offs for SH week 2012: 30 July - 5 Aug. These stories were written as a one-a-day challenge during the aforementioned week.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Silence

Upon their first meeting, Sherlock had casually warned John that he often went for days without speaking. John hadn't taken him literally, assuming the man only meant he liked to keep discussion to a minimum, or rather avoid unnecessary discussion altogether. John had grown used to men that liked to speak tersely, especially during his time in the service, and he was used to men who secluded themselves for moments of silence and recuperation, typically after a gruesome display on the battlefield, but John hadn't anticipated _this._ This full _retreat_ the man had commenced – a strange disappearing act in which John could clearly see an otherwise vanished man. Sherlock was unresponsive to all stimuli, including the sharp stab of midday sunlight splashed across his face or the incessant chime of his phone, or any question directed toward him. Taking it upon himself to perform small favours for the detective, John drew the curtains, answered the man's phone – Mycroft calling again – and made sure Sherlock ate, and if he refused food, then at least a cup of honeyed tea.

The first day of this strange behaviour went overlooked by John as he had been busy at work, returning home to what he had then assumed was simply Sherlock rudely ignoring him. He hadn't noticed something was wrong until day two, at which point he was stuck somewhere between worried friend and professional GP. By day four, John was more than a little frustrated. His concern had gradually tapered off to a series of irritated sighs and glances. Sherlock was never one to respond to body language very well unless actively looking for it, so all of the doctor's hints went unregistered.

"Really, if you stay lying on the sofa much longer, Sherlock, you'll become part of it."

No response, as was the new protocol.

"Why don't we go for a walk? It's a nice day out. Maybe we'll see something interesting? The city always has something to offer."

Nothing, again.

John sighed and rubbed at his temples. He wasn't quite sure what all this meant. Mycroft had assured him it was just one of the "black moods" that Sherlock often suffers. The elder Holmes repeatedly expressed his gratitude of having John available to watch over his brother, as when these moods hit while the younger was alone, he tended to forego nourishment and sleep to the point of necessary hospitalisation. "You're going to grow sore, staying in one spot, Sherlock."

Sherlock blinked, sniffed.

Well, at least there was that. The detective hadn't yet displayed enough courtesy to _look_ at John, but at least he was still aware. The doctor had taken Sherlock's vitals again early this morning, as Sherlock's game had truly convinced him something was wrong. The detective was healthy, save for early signs of dehydration – but he was always dehydrated – and the refusal to willingly make eye contact. He wasn't sure whether Sherlock had slept the past few nights, and he wasn't dozing during the day, but he occasionally blinked rapidly for no more than ten seconds at a time which John had initially feared was a seizure, but now guessed may be credited toward sleep deprivation.

John sighed again and ran a hand through his hair. He left his hair sticking up in funny ends on the weak chance that Sherlock might comment like he was prone to.

"Sherlock, if you're upset with me...I'm sorry. I'm not sure what I've done."

The detective shut his eyes and held them closed for a long moment.

John glanced toward the kitchen. If Sherlock was angry, perhaps tea would help. If he was depressed, well, perhaps tea would help. John rolled his eyes skyward in annoyance. Yes, and if it's something as horrible as neurological disruptions like the blinking-not-seizure had implied, then perhaps tea would help. John stood and lightly limped toward the kitchen to put the kettle on, teeth clenched tightly. He sifted the loose leaf tea into the strainer, making more noise than necessary with the mugs to fill the stifling silence.

John returned with two fresh mugs to find Sherlock in the same position, stretched out on the sofa and staring blankly at the ceiling. John tested his own tea, patiently waiting until it was just cool enough to enjoy without burning the tongue. "If you have no problem with me touching you, say nothing at all."

Sherlock didn't say anything. John smiled wryly.

The doctor carefully lifted Sherlock a bit to offer him his tea. The lanky man seemed only capable of breathing and blinking these last few days and he apathetically allowed John to help him drink, offering minimal assistance.

"We're going to have to come up with some sort of system, Sherlock, if you intend to keep this up. I'll not have you soiling the sofa because you felt it too much effort to run to the loo."

Sherlock tilted his head away slightly, indicating he was through drinking. John glanced into the mug to find it half full. He sighed and set it on the table, lowering Sherlock back to the sofa, tugging on him just enough to get the man on his side. John had experienced this kind of behaviour from Sherlock only a handful of times before, but the detached silence as the man pondered a case had never quite lasted _this_ long, nor had Sherlock been near immobile with whatever was plaguing him. Maybe the lack of a case was the issue, but Sherlock had only just finished one a while ago – could that really be the problem?

"If you don't start drinking more, I'm going to have to put you on a drip, Sherlock, and notify your brother. That won't be pleasant for any of us."

Not a word.

John bowed his head and screwed his eyes shut. He'd been fighting against the sense of helplessness that had struck him by the end of day two, but no amount of yelling, pleading or teasing would get a proper response from Sherlock and the good doctor was reaching his limit. He wasn't sure _why_ the detective was so trapped in his own mind, but the meagre acknowledgements he gave John weren't enough anymore.

"You've cut yourself shaving."

"Well, I was distracted; you were still—" John glanced up sharply, fixed squarely in the detective's gaze. The sense of relief that flooded him was enough to make his eyes water. He leaned over the prone man, hugging him to his chest with enough force to lift him off the sofa a bit, ignoring the muffled sound of surprise Sherlock made against his jumper. When the detective's thin arms wrapped round his shoulders, John finally allowed the distressing tension to leave the back of his mind.

"You used my aftershave," Sherlock mumbled sulkily.

John simply smiled.


	2. Headstrong

“Sherlock,” John grimaced as Sherlock flung a discarded paper bag of something _oozing_ from out of the rubbish bin, “I’m here.”

Sherlock glanced up at him for a second, offering a brief nod.

“Er, Lestrade called me,” he continued, watching Sherlock dig nearly elbow-deep. “He said you yelled at him, told him to leave you be, and he thinks you might...need some help.” Though, whether psychiatric or physical, the DI hadn’t specified. How often does Sherlock root about in bins, honestly?

“I wouldn’t need any help,” Sherlock growled, “if this police force knew its arse from its head.”

John hummed. “What’s the problem, then? And would you _stop that_?” John yanked on the taller man’s coat collar to pull him away from the bin. “You’re going to get stuck with a needle or worse, Sherlock. Honestly, look where we are.”

“I need—”

“No, seriously, Sherlock, _look_.” John gestured wildly to the back of the alleyway, decorated with evidence of homeless inhabitants – currently absent – and a stray cat tucked away in a corner, watching them warily. The recent rain had pulled forth the scent of stale urine and other questionable smells the doctor wasn’t able to identify. A single shoe lay on its side next to a couple makeshift bedrolls and what appeared to be a table lamp which was wrapped in a tatty blanket. “A lamp, really?” John frowned in confusion. “Are they leeching electricity out here?”

“Most likely battery-operated, John, do use your imagination,” Sherlock said in an off-handed manner, having returned to the rubbish bin.

John gave a sharp huff of annoyance. He stepped near Sherlock just as the man tossed aside what appeared to be the mate to the trainer lying behind them. He firmly grabbed Sherlock’s wrist, wrinkling his nose at the grimy state of the man’s hand. “Sherlock.”

The detective continued to sort refuse with his free hand.

With a growl, John grabbed the man’s other wrist and held him still. “Sherlock.”

All progress frustratingly halted for the foreseeable future, Sherlock looked to John expectantly, eyes sharp.

“Just stop for a moment. Tell me what’s going on. What are you looking for?”

“Harvey was stabbed.”

“What?”

“Over there,” Sherlock nodded down the street where the boys from the yard were aimlessly wandering a sectioned-off crime scene. “I’ve already gathered all I needed from the location – it was a bad struggle, but Harvey managed to hold his ground, even while so dangerously injured.”

John faltered at the name again. “Who?”

“A member of the Network,” Sherlock said in a hushed tone, glancing over his shoulder and down the street once more. “He’s in hospital, critical. Lestrade wouldn’t even be here if I hadn’t slipped up and revealed how interested I was in the case, though he still doesn’t know my connection. He didn’t even see it as a case,” Sherlock’s eyes narrowed dangerously. “Said it was ‘just a routine stabbing,’ as though these things can so carelessly be ignored.” The detective wrenched his wrists away in a rare show of anger. “I’m sure he would have been quite keen had Harvey died. But there’s still the possibility of that, so I suppose we’ll see, won’t we?” The detective aggressively returned to his task.

John stood by helplessly for a beat as he watched his friend struggle with more than he could say. He pulled the man back again by his collar and lifted his leg to firmly kick the bin once, twice, to knock it to its side. Its contents spilled out onto the kerb, the loot of a revolting piñata. “What are we looking for?” John ignored the sudden silence from the men at the end of the street and looked to Sherlock, awaiting orders.

“Something that isn’t waste,” Sherlock offered the ghost of a smile. “Something that would have fit into a coat pocket. Something that _shines_.”

Nodding, the doctor fell to a crouch and cautiously sifted through the mess, willing his stomach to stop roiling and decidedly not dwelling on what he may be touching. He worked quietly alongside the detective, fantasising about alcohol wipes and hot showers when his finger caught something sharp. Panicked, he drew his hand back and looked for the offending object. Rather than the dreaded contaminated needle he’d envisioned, he spotted a small gold band with an adornment of three diamonds. He picked it up and turned it over in his hand. “Sherlock.”

Sherlock quickly focused all his attention on John, grinning broadly when he saw what the other man was holding. “Good job, John. I knew it would be here, _had_ to be here. There’s bound to be more, John, keep looking.”

Setting the ring aside, John went back to work. He chanced a glance at Sherlock, noting his intensity and the grim set of his jaw. “So,” he started tentatively, “I’m not sure I remember Harvey. Who is he again?”

The lanky man froze for a second before hurriedly continuing. “I told you, someone from the Network.”

“And you know I’m not deaf, Sherlock, so let’s have it.”

Sherlock’s nostrils flared. His eyes flicked to John’s before darting back to the mess in front of them. “Do you remember the Preacher case?”

John wasn’t sure he’d be able to forget. A foreigner had terrorised the city from May to August a couple years back, dressed in his holy garb, killing ‘sinners’ with a .40 calibre with crosses scratched into the base of the casings. His victims had been sporadic and without any clear links. They varied in age from eleven to as old as eighty five and there were no relations between ethnicity nor gender. “Yes...” John struggled to focus on Sherlock again. “I remember.”

“Do you remember the boy I questioned at the school, outside the main grounds?”

“The student?”

Sherlock gave a short sigh. “Yes, you mistook him for a student. He was only passing by. That, John, was Harvey. He helped me greatly in that case, and I felt he could be of use to me again. Had I known this time it would potentially end his life at fourteen, I wouldn’t have asked him, but I needed someone to shadow the suspect...” Sherlock glared at the organised rubbish before him. Between them they had piled up seven rings, four chains and a bracelet.

“So you hired Harvey for this job. And as he was tailing the suspect, the suspect got nervous and binned his stolen goods before being confronted by Harvey. They fought and Harvey wound up stabbed before the suspect took off,” John offered as a guess, looking over to the sluggish activity behind the crime tape. When he looked back to Sherlock for confirmation, he was met by a proud smile.

“There’s hope for you yet, John. Let’s get this gaudy rubbish to Lestrade and pay Harvey a visit. After that, I believe we’ve a criminal to catch.”

“We’re not stepping into a hospital without cleaning up first, Sherlock,” John muttered, gathering the jewellery and following in the detective’s long strides toward the curious DI.


	3. Ennui

John pressed his lips into a thin line and stared angrily at what had once been his neat assortment of ties. Granted, he only owned seven, but he hadn’t a need for more than that. In his state of boredom, the detective had apparently found it necessary to destroy John’s belongings yet again, and while the doctor was used to it, it didn’t mean he appreciated it. So, now it appeared as though he’d need to go shopping to replace the laughable display of mangled fabric. They hardly resembled ties at all now. He gathered them off the bed and went in search of Sherlock. Given the man’s abilities and all the possibilities the world offered, John was quite often perplexed by the ways in which Sherlock chose to spend his time and energy.

“Sherlock,” John growled as he entered the sitting room. The lanky man was pressed tightly against the fireplace, digging into the mantel with a pocket knife he’d been inexplicably sharpening earlier. _Well,_ John thought, _that solves that mystery._

Sherlock continued to carve a groove into the wood, brows knit together in concentration.

“You owe me new ties, Sherlock.”

“Ties?” Sherlock echoed, shifting minimal attention to the irate doctor.

“Yes. You’re going to replace the ones you destroyed.”

Sherlock snorted. “I hardly ‘destroyed’ anything, John.”

“What do you call this, then,” the doctor asked gruffly, shaking the collection of cut, singed and knotted fabric in the man’s general direction.

“An experiment,” came the simple reply.

“Of course. What was it this time? Were you trying to calculate just how far you’d have to push before I kicked your bloody arse down the street? Because I’ll tell you, Sherlock, it’s—”

“I was testing the strength of the material along with the amount of give in various knots. The square knot held nicely but wasn’t quite as impressive as the alpine butterfly loop in the silk tie. The figure eight knot worked fine in the heavy weave tie but wasn’t terribly reliable – it worked much better in the synthetic, which, by the way, is impressively durable after being wetted a bit. I should think, given the right conditions, you could lift a man with—”

“Sherlock, I could honestly live a full and happy life without knowing the results of your experiment.”

“Really? You wouldn’t feel that way if you knew how your weave tie reacted to my lighter. You really should be more aware of the things round you, John.”

The doctor closed his eyes and counted to five. “Even assuming I could salvage one of these and iron the wrinkles out, I’m going to have to borrow one of yours for the meeting at the hospital.”

“What meeting? You’re leaving?”

“The meeting I’ve been telling you about all month, Sherlock. The board is coming in to discuss changes with us. One of the clinics is facing an audit and we’re all to review new policies.”

Sherlock paused, as though searching his head for memories of this topic.

Sighing, John scrubbed at his face with his free hand. “Anyway, I’ll need one of your ties.”

“I don’t own any,” Sherlock returned smoothly, knife picking into the wood again.

“What? But you—”

“Mycroft has occasionally loaned me ties but I always promptly return them,” he explained, eyes flicking up to catch John’s confused stare. “I don’t like them. It feels too much like being strangled.”

John made a rude noise of disbelief. “Never mind that you were once _literally_ strangled with your scarf—”

“Given the results of the experiment, I should prefer a scarf over a tie. Besides, what purpose does a tie serve, really? Other than to accumulate germs and serve as a life-threatening hazard, of course.”

John didn’t respond for a long moment, staring in a disbelieving stupor as the man continued to work on the mantel. Digging and chipping away. He would ask what he was hoping to achieve by ruining the fireplace, but he was afraid of the answer he’d get. It was days like these that John almost wished malaise would strike the detective, as while in that state he was a lot less destructive and attention-seeking, but he truly would never wish that upon the brilliant man. He shuddered now, just recalling the few times he’d witnessed Sherlock struggling with those draining moods. The brief flares of boredom the detective suffered were marginally healthier and at least promised interesting events. “So no ties, then,” he asked lamely.

“Perhaps you can ask Lestrade to borrow one. But honestly, John, I would highly recommend you avoid wearing them at all – they’re quite dangerous.”

John rolled his eyes. “Yes, and we all know how concerned you are by any danger that should befall me.”

“It is my topmost priority, John,” Sherlock returned soberly, bright eyes piercing the doctor to the core in abrupt intensity.

The doctor broke eye contact first, glancing away to the doorway. He could feel heat rising to his face as he remained under the detective’s meaningful stare. It wasn’t long before the sound of the knife harshly gouging into the fireplace picked up again and in a soft exhale, John released the breath he’d been holding.

“Right, okay. I’m off out.” He chanced a look to Sherlock – he was working with all his focus, brows knit tightly together again. “I’ll bring home Chinese food, shall I?”

“Indian.”

“Indian, alright. The mail that’s been piling up for you is mostly requests for your help on cases. I bet if you looked, you’d find something interesting and you could stop... _experimenting_ on things round the flat.”

Sherlock didn’t offer a reply, though his rhythm with the knife faltered for a second.

“You should read the mail, Sherlock,” John called over his shoulder as he left the room.

Sherlock’s childish reply of “ _You_ read the mail,” followed John down the hall. The detective was too far away to catch the fond smile on the doctor’s face, or the sight of the blonde pocketing a small scrap of one of his ruined ties.


	4. Ruffian

John hadn’t realised he was in trouble until he was on his back, tunnel vision narrowed down to concentrate only on the dull blades of an overhead fan cutting lazily though the stale pub air. He tested his jaw; quite stiff already, but at least it was functional.

Over the din of the sudden mayhem the doctor heard, “John! Get off your arse and help me!”

The ex-soldier barely had time to roll to his front before one of the furious men from the opposing group was lifting him to his feet again. John ducked out of his hold, getting only a graze of knuckles against his cheekbone this time. He drew back his own fist and caught the bigger bloke right in the nose. There was a startling crunch before the man began to bleed like a butchered cow, howling into his hands as he covered his injury.

“Better get that looked at,” John muttered as he passed the cursing, bleeding mess on his way to help Lestrade. He flexed his fist to try to get it to respond, but either the alcohol in his blood or the damage from the long-since repaired break in his wrist was causing it to be uncooperative. He quickly reached the DI, who was in the middle of everything, doing a poor job of holding his ground. What had happened to the rest of the guys who’d sided with them earlier?

“Last time I go drinking with you,” Lestrade called out to John, wrestling with a clearly pissed pub-goer whose movements were just sloppy and liquid enough to keep Lestrade struggling.

“Me? You’re the one who couldn’t keep his mouth shut.” John forcefully separated them, shoving the rival directly into the line of stools and other hostile drinkers. He ignored the subsequent crash and yelling, instead levelling Lestrade with a wobbly stare.

“I say one thing about the match, and everyone’s out for blood?”

“Yeah, Greg, that’s how it works.”

“Your lip’s split.”

John licked at the blood dripping down his chin. “You’re gonna have a black eye,” he returned sharply, taking note of the swelling along the DI’s face.

“Look, we should get out of here,” Greg said seriously, eyes unfocused through drink and possibly a concussion. “Bartender’s been yelling about calling for officers for bit now.”

“ _You’re_ an officer.”

“Right, a _drunk_ one.”

“Fine,” John turned to locate the exit and made a startled noise in the back of his throat at sight of the fist speeding his way. He ducked and heard a solid hit behind him and a grunt from Lestrade. “Shit, sorry,” he called over his shoulder to the grumbling DI before rushing the threat, catching him in the throat with the blade of his arm.

“You don’t know – gcchk – _shit about football_ ,” the man croaked round John’s arm.

“It wasn’t me that started this, you idiot,” John hissed.

In lieu of reply, the man decided to gather as much spit as he could before unexpectedly painting John’s face with it.

For a second, John was genuinely shocked. It didn’t last long before his reflexes kicked in and he floored the man with a solid punch to the head. “You bloody bastard,” he snarled, wiping his face with the back of his hand. The brief thought that he’d probably be seeing a majority of these people in the clinic tomorrow only fuelled his anger. There was suddenly someone nearly lifting him by his shirt collar and he spun round violently to catch the offender in the face. His fist was caught swiftly in Sherlock’s gentle grip, the man distractedly tracking the brawlers with keen eyes rather than looking to John. He had apparently anticipated the ex-soldier’s attack. The detective smelled heavily of cigarette smoke – he never drank when they went to the pubs, instead often wandering outside to waste money on cigarettes from strangers.

“Sherlock, seriously, smoking is bad for you.”

The lanky man looked to John and his eyebrow twitched – the only movement on an otherwise impassive face. He dropped John’s hand to carefully touch his fingertips to John’s jaw and cheek, eyes darting between his injuries and lightly moving the doctor’s head to inspect them. He didn’t say a word.

“I bet getting struck in the face isn’t that much better,” Lestrade mumbled weakly.

Sherlock’s gaze drifted again to sweep the pub, fixing on several men he apparently deemed threats. He looked Lestrade over as the man approached them before evidently coming to a decision. He gathered John’s shirt collar in his fist again, mirroring the action with the DI’s collar, before safely manoeuvring them through the chaos of wankered fighters. He dragged and pushed them along like children who had behaved badly, silent and focused. He swung Lestrade away from a stray fist, tucked John against his side when someone threw a stool past them, shifted Lestrade again when some chap stumbled in their direction.

When they reached the street, Sherlock finally let them go, nudging them toward home.

“Hey, arsehole!”

The three of them turned round to face the man John had first hit; his nose was still bleeding like a tap, staining the front of his shirt. John’s muddled mind was too distracted by the stark red on white to notice the knife clenched in his fist until it was nearly in his face. He only had enough reaction time to screw his eyes shut – which wasn’t a proper defence at all, really – but rather than an agonising encounter with the blade, he was met with the firm, familiar grasp of Sherlock’s arm embracing him. Sherlock spun him out of the way, simultaneously stepping in past the attacker’s outstretched arm to strike him cleanly in the jaw with the heel of his palm. The man’s head snapped back and Sherlock followed through with an elbow to the man’s temple and a calculated repositioning of his stance to trip the shocked man into falling flat on his back. The knife clattered to the pavement, metal striking rock musically. Sherlock eyed the downed man for a moment, and when he figured the problem had been dealt with, turned back to John and Lestrade just as sirens echoed up the street.

Sherlock pressed his palm into the middle of John’s back to urge him into moving again. He glanced sidelong at Lestrade. “Are you coming or staying?”

Greg blinked at the miserable man sprawled out on the street before him. “Er, staying, I suppose. I’ll clean this mess up, yeah? You two were never here.”

“Lestrade—”

Sherlock didn’t allow John to finish, pushing him into the narrow gap between buildings and onward into a maze only the detective knew how to navigate.


	5. Luck

During comfortably lazy nights at the flat, John would read aloud if he felt Sherlock was in a welcoming mood. Often from the newspaper, or a fiction novel, John would read at a steady pace until they were interrupted by a case or a visitor. It was seldom that John was allowed to read from start to finish. On several occasions he read from the science texts he’d see Sherlock habitually perusing; the books of this nature typically had the detective’s tight scrawl in the margins as well as scribbled illustrations. If Sherlock would genuinely take the time, his artistic skills would be quite impressive. But as these notes and drawings drew John’s attention too far away from the text, and thus disrupted Sherlock’s ability to stay focused and interested, John rarely read from them. When the detective was angry or stressed, John discovered the prolonged sound of his voice had an interesting soothing affect. More times than not, if Sherlock was struggling with insomnia, it only took approximately twenty minutes to an hour of John reading or talking to the detective about aimless topics before the man was finally able to find sleep. Sometimes John would have to comb his fingers through the man’s hair to help him along, especially if the detective was going on one of his week-long stints without sleep.

It was also during those lazy nights lounging before the fireplace that John discovered peculiar things about the detective, like the fact that he will answer his phone at any hour if John tries to contact him, but refuses to answer his mobile if Mycroft tries him after 20:25. John knows Sherlock doesn’t like people rearranging his belongings, though when John has to shift things to make more desk space, Sherlock doesn’t comment. John knows Sherlock likes strawberry jam more than grape, honey more than sugar, and would generally eat sweets more than nourishing food if John would allow it – it was something the Holmes brothers had in common but they would both strongly deny it. His favourite element is Praseodymium, though he won’t explain why. And his favourite bone is the clavicle – it’s worth note that the detective has broken his twice. John also knows Sherlock finds hand-written letters to be far more interesting than typed, which is why John occasionally leaves the man notes about the flat, even if they hardly serve a purpose like the one which read: Remember the keys I lost last week? They’re still lost.

If you ask Sherlock whether he believes in luck, he’ll roll his eyes and call you an idiot. John only knew this because he had asked the detective one cool evening after a natural lull in their conversation.

“Luck is for fools.”

“Didn’t you say the same thing about love? And health insurance? And camping? And baseball caps? And Pot Noodle – which is delicious – and those little books that—”

“Yes. I don’t know. Probably. Lots of things are for fools.”

“And I’m just arguing that you’re not much of an expert on that.”

Sherlock blinked sleepily at John from across the room.

“How about the fact that you’ve been shot at several times but never hit while I have honestly only been shot at about the same amount but I’ve been struck twice?”

“You’ve been to war.”

“And?”

“The ratio of my incidents to yours—”

“I’ve been shot after service, too. Besides, the circumstance shouldn’t matter, it’s the fact that someone has a gun trained on you and you manage to escape without a wound. That’s luck, Sherlock.”

“No, that’s credit to reflexes, timing, aim, expertise, weather, any amount of distractions, as well as personal conditions like the amount of rest and focus on behalf of the shooter.”

“So you’re saying a well-rested and fed shooter has _less_ of a chance of hitting you than does an edgy sleep-deprived, worn and beaten soldier of hitting me? That doesn’t make sense.”

“You’re generalising parameters.”

“No, because that’s what it boils down to. You’re lucky. You’ve been hit by cars no less than thirteen times since I’ve met you with only bruises as the result, and you’ve also cheated death more times than I can count when dealing with volatile suspects. Hell, Sherlock, you’ve even saved _me_ from death a few times.”

“Most of that can be attributed to timing.”

“What do you think luck is? It’s at least forty percent timing.”

Sherlock snorted. “You have it divided into percentages? What are the other divisions?”

John shrugged. “Hope? Courage? And probably blind stupidity.”

“Right, because it’s for fools.”

Grinning, John shook his head. “Then count yourself among us, Sherlock, because you’re lucky.”

Sherlock tucked his legs under himself on the chair and looked to John sleepily again. “You’re just a romantic. None of that stuff really exists in the real world. Everything is balanced by cause and effect, not some intervention by fate or some religious figure.  Chance can be weighed in the probability theory, not demons and faeries.”

“I’m not discussing religion; we’ve had _that_ conversation. I just mean you tend more toward good fortune.”

Sherlock sighed.

“Alright. How about the time you were chasing after that thief Fitzpatrick, and he jumped off the flyover and you _followed him_ – you berk – and not only did your scarf catch the rail and knot in just the right spot to prevent you from _hanging yourself_ – you bloody idiot – but you managed to save the thief as well. What would you call that?” John watched Sherlock’s eyes track an invisible show against the wall, quite possibly reliving the mentioned event. When his eyes stopped their movements and fell half-lidded again, John asked impatiently, “Well?”

“Don’t you have clinic duty in the morning?”

John chuckled and stood to head to bed. “You’re lucky I put up with you, Sherlock.”

Ducking his head into the crook of his arm, the detective muttered quietly, possibly with the intent of having John miss it, “I know.”

John carded his fingers through Sherlock’s fringe and across his head as he passed him on the way to the stairs.


	6. Observant

They were out of milk again. _Again_. John slammed the fridge shut. How was it possible? He’d just bought some yesterday. He sighed tiredly and went in search of Sherlock. The detective wasn’t in the lounge, or his bedroom – and John checked under the man’s bed because he’d found him there one bizarre afternoon. He wasn’t on the stairs or in the hall. John glanced quickly into his room but moved on, positive that the lanky man wouldn’t have been there. It took him three full steps into the hall before John realised he’d actually seen Sherlock sprawled out on his bed. He about-faced on his heel and entered his room. “Sherlock.”

The detective was plucking lazily at the strings on his violin which was resting on his belly. He languidly moved his head to face John.

Ignoring the first impulse to question Sherlock’s decision to invade his room – because they would never get back to the discussion about the milk – John instead asked, “Where’s the milk gone?”

“Is that some kind of riddle,” Sherlock asked, rubbing sleepily at an eye, quiet notes ceasing for the moment.

John laughed. “What? No, it’s a direct question.”

“Where’s the milk gone,” Sherlock echoed. “I think... I needed the proteases, or something akin to it, for the experiment I was running on that arm you made me keep in the ‘horror fridge.’” He plucked at the violin a bit. “It didn’t work out the way I’d hoped.”

John blanched. “Right. Better that you didn’t put the milk back then. But you’re coming with me to Tesco for more. Grab your coat.”

“I don’t remember agreeing to that.”

“That’s because this is the first time we’re discussing it. And you don’t get a say. Up you get.”

“Why would I need to go if you’re already going?”

“Because, Sherlock, I want you to know all that goes into keeping the kitchen stocked with food. You do know that these things don’t just magically appear, right? I have to go out after long days at the clinic to buy them and deal with the general populace, people who are also tired and irritated. These trips are far too often at that, as you seem so intent on using everything in full as soon as it enters the flat.”

“I don’t like shopping, John.”

“So you’ve told me.”

Sherlock stared at John for a long moment, apparently reading John for any signs that he might not be completely serious. He wasn’t finding anything in his favour.

“C’mon, grab your coat.” John left the room and headed down the hall. By the time he’d reached the front door, Sherlock was just dragging himself sulkily to the stairs. The man grabbed his coat, and as he slipped his arms through the sleeves, looked to John in a subtle begging manner.

John wouldn’t be swayed.

The ride in the cab was quiet but not tense; there were times when they were content enough just to hear each other breathe. When they reached their destination, Sherlock paid the cabbie before John could even properly remove his wallet. Surprised, John followed him out and the silence between them changed into something edgy as soon as they entered the shop.

“Really, John, can’t you do this alone,” Sherlock asked tightly, eyes darting about, landing on items and people alike in rapid succession.

“No, Sherlock. C’mon, it’s just milk. And some more of those biscuits you like, if you want, or anything else we spot.”

The detective hummed in this throat, glancing at a woman that moved passed them down the aisle. “She’s cheating on her spouse.”

“What?”  
“That woman, down there,” he pointed lazily.

“You can’t possibly tell that.”

He snorted. “Her ring finger, there’s a tan line. Her hair, her shoes – really, John, it’s all so obvious.”

“Fine, so she’s cheating on her husband,” John said carelessly, reaching for a box of biscuits. “These ones, right?”

“I didn’t say her spouse was a male, John. Though her new lover is.” Sherlock took the box from John’s hand, glanced at the nutrition listing and placed it back in favour of another. His eyes travelled the entire selection, eyes almost jerky and glazed. He suddenly said, “That boy over there, he’s an adopted child as well as a developing arsonist. I feel we may be dealing with him soon.”

John glanced over his shoulder at the twelve year old darting behind a display. He looked back to Sherlock to find him a few paces ahead. “How could you tell?”

“She’s just lost her job,” Sherlock mumbled, eyes flicking toward a sombre woman near the dairy. “And he’s just gained one,” this time looking to a man reaching for a bag of bagels. “That couple over there owns three cats, two dogs and...one bird.” Sherlock scrubbed at his eyes with a fist quickly. “He’s recently broke a leg.”

John struggled to keep up, looking now to a thin man with a barely perceivable limp. “Sherlock—”

The detective was muttering under his breath, eyes darting about the store, “New baby, or perhaps a death in the family. Those sweets contain 84g of sugar. Both? No, baby. Recently returned from Asia, may have spent too much. Basketball player, training. Why even make that flavour of crisps? Painter. Doctor, but not like John. A surgeon? 16.8, 92.4. That man has a knife in his pocket. She’s going to drop that.”

“Sherlock.” John finally caught up with the lanky man, grabbing his wrist just as there was a crash of glass down the way. John jumped at the sound and Sherlock stopped moving at the touch of the doctor’s hand. His jaw was clenched tight, and his eyes were still following people walking by and studying labels and packaging. “Hey, look at me.” Sherlock offered him a distant, momentary glance before his eyes were called away again. He was breathing erratically and his eyes refused to stay on any one thing for very long.

John swallowed thickly. He let go of the detective to reach in the cooler for a jug of milk. He shoved it into the man’s chest, effectively startling him into paying attention, grabbing at it automatically. “Feel how cold that is?”

Sherlock stared dully at the milk clutched in his hands. John grabbed the detective’s elbow and quickly led him back toward the chip and pin machines. “Do you remember the case in the Alps? It was beautiful there. It would have been such a lovely holiday if not for the murders we were investigating. But do you remember the cold? You refused to wear gloves and you nearly lost your hands to frostbite. It wasn’t until I’d forced you to wear mine that I could finally stop worrying.” John quickly paid, luckily without incident, and led the subdued detective out of the shop by his elbow, toward the street. “That was by the middle of the week. The next day you bought me new gloves, but kept my old ones. Do you still have those by the way? You know, Sherlock, it would have just made more sense to buy yourself some new ones. Mine probably fit loosely on you.” John continued to ramble as he got Sherlock situated in the back of the taxi. They naturally kept a small space between them anytime they were in close quarters, but if Sherlock tended to shift closer anytime he thought John wasn’t paying attention, John didn’t comment. And when their thighs brushed warmly against each other, John ignored the shaky, calming sigh Sherlock gave.


	7. Cut

“Lift your shirt; I’m changing your bandage now.”

“You just did.”

John eyed Sherlock sternly, a fresh roll of gauze, a wound pad, medical tape and wipe packs bundled in his arms. The detective was still alarmingly pale, eyes underlined by dark smudges; his angry glare came off more like a tired squint.

“That was yesterday. Lift it.” John struggled for a beat to open the pad with his gloved hands as he kneeled beside the sofa.

Sherlock let his head dip to his chest for a second in defeat before setting aside his book and lying back on the sofa, lifting the t-shirt they’d bought him for his recovery period. It was intentionally white to give away any unexpected bleeding and two sizes too big to avoid catching on his wrappings. It made Sherlock seem uncharacteristically young, wearing a shirt nicked from his dad’s drawer.

As soon as the detective was settled, John cut his old wrappings loose in a quick snip and tenderly eased the old tape and pad free. He used a wipe to gently clean round the dark stitches and red flesh that had been sewn back together. He frowned at the sight and worked in silence. Sherlock’s tendency to rush headfirst into danger was something John knew he’d never grow used to, and the man’s refusal to acknowledge injuries – for days sometimes – definitely not. But the fact that the man habitually kept important information from him, say, the fact that he’d nearly been _gutted_ , was something that would have to stop. Immediately.

The detective had insisted John follow a lead at the onset of the case. A lead that took him to the complete opposite side of town, far from the stupid, reckless detective. It was a lead John was _sure_ Sherlock knew to be false. The bloody idiot had tried to keep John away by insisting he was sending the doctor to investigate important points of interest while he took on the killer alone. An unpredictable murderer, alone. And for what? The thrill of catching him single-handedly? To prove only he could perform these amazing feats? The brilliant detective, fuelled by his drive to always impress.

John smeared cool antiseptic gel onto the 9cm long wound, apologising quietly when the man’s stomach muscles jumped at the cold. He fit the new pad in place and taped it down, rubbing the strips to warm the adhesive with friction. He began to wrap the lanky man’s middle with the gauze, to further hold the pad in place when Sherlock spoke up.

“That’s not necessary. You’re wasting your supplies.”

John didn’t reply, letting his hand rest lightly over the man’s hidden injury for a calm beat. When it came to Sherlock, nothing was a waste, nothing unnecessary. Didn’t the man know John would do anything for him? He wanted to be someone Sherlock could rely on, someone he’d willingly bring along into the dark to fight against monsters. He draped the strip of gauze over his stomach before snaking a hand under his back to pull it round and snug. Three and a quarter lengths round.

It hadn’t been a shallow injury. The knife had done quite a bit of damage. Sherlock’s shirt, coat and trousers had been sticky with blood by the time John had found him. His phone call for emergency assistance had been difficult for the ringing in his ears and the shock that had quickly set in, watching Sherlock blink dazedly on the street, struggling to get his feet under him again as his small intestine threatened to slip out the gruesome opening. The detective had been chasing the murderer for quite some distance after being stabbed – his trail of blood reached back several streets and down a couple alleyways, all of which was explained to the ex-soldier in detail by Lestrade after the fact. How long had he been running, how long before he thought to call John for help, not because he was bleeding out on the street, but because he’d lost sight of the suspect? John hadn’t had time to look into any of it himself, as he’d been glued to Sherlock’s side as soon as they were taken into the ambulance. He’d paced up and down the waiting room the whole time the man was in surgery, paced at his bedside as he slept and paced about the flat as Sherlock stubbornly refused to stay put or eat or sleep unless it was medically induced.

If he’d been any later... If Sherlock hadn’t called him, a gasping, whimpering whisper, _John, he’s getting away..._

John had called Mycroft immediately, _Help me, help me find him, now_ , let the elder hijack both their phones to serve as beacons. Raced toward the rhythmically blinking dot on his bright map, praying to a god he wasn’t sure he believed in, fearing the worst.

The wait for the ambulance had been so long, so impossibly long. _Please, please, no, please, not Sherlock..._ Clutching at the man’s bloodied hand, squeezing tightly, hoping to keep him grounded, here, with him.

_Please._

John tugged Sherlock’s shirt back down into place and removed his gloves in two quick snaps. The detective was still upset with him, for having stayed rather than run off after the murderer. He’d been so insistent, gasping out orders John refused to obey while clawing weakly at the street. He’d yelled at him when they got back to the flat. Ignored him completely for a full day, checked the headlines for reports on the escaped killer, angry and restless.

John closed his eyes and leaned forward, dropping his forehead to lightly rest against the newly wrapped injury. He closed his eyes and simply felt and listened to Sherlock breathe. If he’d been any later. If his mobile had missed the call – his useless, unreliable service. If Sherlock hadn’t called at all...

John hadn’t realised he was crying until Sherlock’s thumb gently wiped away a tear. The rest had already fallen to soak into the man’s shirt. They stayed in that position past the point at which John’s legs began to protest, with the doctor’s eyes closed and the detective’s hand heavy on his head. When Sherlock’s stomach growled the side of John’s mouth quirked upward and he eased himself to his feet. Odds were it wouldn’t take much to convince him to eat this time. As he stepped away, Sherlock’s hand loosely caught his, such a strong contrast from the crushing hold they’d had on each other a few nights ago on that dark street. John made a vow as their grip simultaneously tightened before parting: Sherlock would not face these monsters alone; his injuries would not be suffered alone. Sherlock would not be alone.


	8. Keeper

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> An extra chapter to round out the titles. Have a look at the first letter of each chapter...

Growing up, John had always had a deep sense of responsibility. This gradually grew into the need to help people, to be of use when people needed it most. His time in the service was conflicting, helping some and hurting others. The lines blurred too much in war – it started to lose sense, made him doubt himself and the point of it, of all of it. He’d reached a very low point by the time he’d left that life behind. Crippled and changed, _awake_ to things he’d never even imagined before. On those dark nights when the nightmares wouldn’t let him sleep and his mind raced in loops, John couldn’t imagine things ever being right again, ever being simple. He’d spent those nights cleaning his gun, stripping it and scrubbing the barrel to clear it of long-gone sand he’d left in Afghanistan. Once that meditative process was complete, he’d hold the weapon tightly and wait for the dark impulse to flick the safety off to pass, staring at the bare wall into the early hours of the morning.

John had been convinced he’d be faced with nights like those for the rest of his life. And while he did still suffer from nightmares and regret, the burden had been significantly lifted since meeting Sherlock.

Sherlock Holmes, an enigma of a man; all brooding thoughts and snarky comments, laughter and childlike curiosity. A genius, cursed at times in his abilities. His sense for adventure was infectious and John was always willing to run alongside him, just that little bit faster, farther.

Sherlock had been called heartless before, a psychopath. To the outside observer, Sherlock was terribly self-involved, uncaring and detached. An unreachable island. A machine.

John knew the truth. Sherlock could be cut by insults. He had common fears like the startling boom of thunder and the unexpected sight of spiders. His sense of humour was a little dry and unusual, but John could frequently surprise a laugh out of him. Sherlock often needed looking after. He believed his mind to be burdened by the weight and necessities of his body and therefore often forwent caring for it. He was regularly stuck inside his head. He was both jealous and proud of his brother. He was insecure in stable relationships for the lack of ever having had any, often due to his abilities and absent knowledge of social norms. He’d known Lestrade for some time before John met him, but was only now warming up to the DI.

It had been different with John, though. As soon as they met, Sherlock had aimed to amaze and John had eagerly enjoyed the show.

After years of serving as a doctor, accompanied with his innate ability to determine the medical and mental needs of others, John was able to see beyond the masks Sherlock wore. It was quite natural for John to fall into the role of keeper where Sherlock was concerned. At times, the detective reminded him of soldiers who had returned to duty after having served once before. The men and women whose smiles never quite reach their eyes, for their minds were always wandering somewhere else. Somewhere dark, with reminders of all the things they’d seen, of knowing the true dangerous potential of people. They saw more in simple movements than civilians could see, in the way people walked – recognising concealed weapons; in the way they talked – the change in pitch immediately before someone executed violent intent. John and Sherlock shared these eyes. Though Sherlock could read these things more quickly than John – as John continually hoped people outside war could be expected to treat each other kindly, whereas Sherlock knew the truth – the ex-soldier was able to react swiftly once engaged and they made a good team.

So the days John was stuck with patching Sherlock up, or bribing him into eating or coaxing him into sleep, he was comfortable and proficient. He knew the limits of the mind and body, and although those limits could be surpassed in various circumstances, and though Sherlock _appeared_ superhuman in some aspects, the detective did have limits just like anyone else. He would subconsciously give clues that John was able to read when those limits were met. An unusual one John had needed time to recognise was the way the lanky man would crack his knuckles when he was tired and stubbornly refusing sleep. Or when he was exceedingly hungry, his hands would find their way to his lips. It was difficult to convince the man to eat while on a case, but the resulting comfort of the man was worth the fight.

But it wasn’t a one way street. John had belatedly noticed that Sherlock was sure the doctor was able to eat any time he wanted, especially while on cases and even when the detective himself didn’t eat. It was an unspoken habit of the detective to pay for any of John’s needs when the ex-soldier was tight on funds and too embarrassed to ask for help. Sherlock also sat up with him on the long nights John’s memories wouldn’t let him sleep, playing gentle pieces on his violin. There were the little things, as well. Like the way Sherlock always made sure John got the mug that wasn’t chipped. Or that he always hung his coat on the furthest side of the rack so that John wouldn’t have to struggle to reach his own. And while Sherlock could be madly careless with his own things, he always treated John’s prized possessions like gold.

John smiled fondly, lying on his side on the sofa. They didn’t have a case on and Sherlock was okay with that for the time being, so John didn’t need to keep a watchful eye on him. The doctor began to doze, slipping into that hazy place between dreaming and waking, listening to Sherlock tap away on the keys of his laptop. He wasn’t sure what the detective was up to, but at least it didn’t involve fire or guns. The sound of traffic outside was familiar, and the repetitive tapping was lulling. Just as he began to move toward that final stop before sleep, John noted the absence of Sherlock’s typing. Before he could open his heavy eyes to find out why he’d stopped, the blanket bundled on the adjacent chair was carefully draped over him. The typing shortly resumed and John hid his smile under the blanket.


End file.
